


there’s a joke here somewhere (this laugh’s on me)

by kattyshack



Series: snowflakes [9]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (that's the general idea anyway), Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, Love at First Sight, Matchmaking, Meet-Cute, Romance, fluffy like a marshmallow nothing else to see here folks!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-09
Updated: 2018-02-09
Packaged: 2019-03-15 17:31:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13618233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/pseuds/kattyshack
Summary: written for jonsa candy hearts on tumblr: day 3: puppy love:When Jon hears about the cute redhead who owns the popular dog café downtown, he can’t resist a walk with Ghost to take a look. After all, his dog deserves the best… Plus, Jon’s easy, so he’d be hard-pressed to resist a pretty girl with a soft spot for dogs and coffee — and, as it turns out, there’s -no way- he can resist the likes of Sansa Stark.(title from “dancing in the dark,” by bruce springsteen)





	there’s a joke here somewhere (this laugh’s on me)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [soapieturner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soapieturner/gifts).



> a/n: for mandy, because this was her idea, picset, and opening dialogue in the first place (here)
> 
> also there’s another reference to jon’s brain short-circuiting to the tune of “la bamba” when faced with the mere prospect of sansa — a reference that is becoming one of my signature fanfic moves, so like… you’ve been warned and i don’t wanna hear any complaints
> 
> PARA BAILAR LA BAMBA!!!!!

“Sam…” Jon’s smile fades to be replaced by a concerned frown as he scratches his panting dog behind the ears. “Why does Ghost’s breath smell like chocolate?”

“It’s carob. We stopped for coffee on our walk,” Sam reassures him, not looking up from his book. He’s not going to dignify his flatmate’s assumption that Sam would let Ghost indulge in _real_ _chocolate_ ; frankly, it’s insulting. “That little café that opened up by the park, it has pupcakes.”

After giving his dog one last good scratch, Jon stands. His knees pop with the sudden movement, but he hardly notices as he lifts one quizzical, almost incredulous eyebrow. _“Pupcakes?”_

“All dog-friendly ingredients! The owner, Sansa, she has a dog just like Ghost.” Sam doesn’t bother trying to mask his mischievous smirk — it’s not as though Jon’s going to notice, anyway — when he adds airily, “You should go there with him sometime. Today, even. He really enjoyed it.”

Jon snorts. He rummages through the cabinets for the grounds because he’s perfectly capable of making his own coffee, thanks, and besides — “I’m not spending five quid on a _pupcake_.”

Sam puts his book down, his mischievous smirk widening. Oh, this is going to be _such_ fun. “Free pupcake with your coffee! Cappawcinos — get it? Cap- _paw_ -cino? Well anyway,” he continues when Jon only raises his eyebrows at him again, “they’re half-price if you donate to the RSPCA.”

Jon shakes his head, and the package of coffee grounds with it. He already donates to the RSPCA, and ever since he’d had Ghost they hadn’t missed a fundraising walk. He does his part, and he hasn’t got to shell out an obscene amount of money for treats when Ghost would just as gladly eat from the rubbish bin — he _has_ eaten from the rubbish bin. Which, admittedly, isn’t Jon’s preferred way to spoil his dog, but the point still stands.

“Oh, come on,” Sam presses. “It’s cute.”

“Well —” Jon pauses to yawn hugely. These overnight shifts at the station are really starting to get to him. “You’re more than welcome to take him there when I’m at work for a ‘cap- _paw_ -cino,’ then, but I’d rather make my own regular, human coffee in the comfort of my own home.”

“Mm- _hmmm_ ,” Sam hums, pleased with himself already. “Then might I _just say_ it really is funny how much Ghost is like you. Wouldn’t stop following this Sansa around, even tried to get back into the kitchen with her.”

“Um… alright?” Jon wonders if it’s the sleep deprivation talking, or if Sam really just implied that Jon’s in the habit of stalking women he’s never so much as heard of before. _Sansa…_ That’s not a name you hear every day; Jon’s sure he doesn’t know her, so he equally doesn’t know what Sam’s on about.

Sam picks up his book again, not a care in the world, and drops the ball he’d been holding since he’d met Sansa Stark a few hours ago: “Yes, well, he must get his fondness for red hair from you, is all I’m saying.”

(Of course Sam knows that Ghost is just as colorblind as any other dog, but that’s hardly the point when he’s trying to get Jon to take a chance on _something_ , for _once_.)

There is a beat of silence as the wheels in Jon’s brain screech to a halt — and in that silence, Sam can practically hear his friend thinking (and when a pretty redhead who likes coffee and dogs is on the line, usually what Jon’s thinking is a rousing chorus of “La Bamba” as he completely and utterly panics).

As quickly as it had come, the silence lapses when Jon tosses the now-useless coffee beans into the bin and declares, “Well, if Ghost likes it so much, I suppose the place is worth a look.”

“Mm- _hmmm_ ,” Sam hums again. Ghost’s tail thumps excitedly against the hardwood floor, and he starts drooling almost as obviously as his owner is. _Easier than instant coffee, the both of them._ “That’s what I thought.”

 

* * *

 

It’s a short walk to Winterfell’s bustling little downtown (appropriately if lazily dubbed “Wintertown”), a fact which Jon usually appreciates, although today he would have preferred a few more minutes to get his bearings. Perhaps if he hadn’t just about shot out of the flat on Sam’s vague word about a redhead Ghost fancied, Jon would have taken a moment to _find his chill_. Then again, finding his chill isn’t exactly something Jon Snow is known for, despite what his surname might suggest to the contrary.

He cringes at the joke. God, if those are the sort of lines he’s going to drop on this Sansa girl, he might as well turn tail for home now and forget this endeavor entirely.

But Ghost, as if reading his mind, tugs eagerly and resolutely on his lead, and Jon is forced to keep up. Before he’s quite prepared to go through with this — read: not prepared at all — Jon finds himself at the front door of the café: _Dancing In the Bark_. He can’t be sure, but he’s willing to bet a couple of cappawcinos that’s a Springsteen reference, and _if it is_ … Well, color Jon Snow a lost cause, because he’s in love with the girl who runs this place before he’s even met her.

This, he thinks ruefully as he follows Ghost inside, is why he needs to date more. If he just experienced how terribly unromantic the world truly is, Jon’s sure he’d divest himself of such wildly romantic notions as “love even before first sight,” and maybe then he wouldn’t be so disappointed all the time.

Oh, god, he’s really got to calm down, hasn’t he?

Jon takes a breath to stop himself from overthinking, and attempts to distract himself by looking ‘round the café. It’s a small, warm place painted a cheerful butter-yellow; here and there, delicate turquoise brushstrokes decorate the walls with quotes ranging from cutesy to inspirational, and the wall behind the counter is crowded with snapshots of customers and their furry companions. Jon even hones in on one of Sam and Ghost, which must have been taken that morning. They both have foam on their noses, and Jon wonders if he can snag a copy to give to Gilly for her birthday.

Also behind the counter is a girl, but not the one Sam had mentioned — this girl’s not a redhead, but a little brunette with a choppy sort of pixie cut, wide eyes, and an expectant look on her face as she waits for Jon to say something. When he doesn’t, choosing instead to shift nervously on his feet and bunch Ghost’s lead in his sweaty grip, the girl pipes up: “Get you somethin’? Your dog here had one of the pupcakes this morning. He want another?”

“Erm…” Jon clears his throat as he glances — surreptitiously, he hopes — around the shop. “Sure. And, uh, just a coffee for me.”

He slides into a seat at the counter, and Ghost sits dutifully beside him.

“Yeah, shoulda pegged you for the coffee, black, sort,” the girl says matter-of-factly. “You sure spoil your dog, huh? Had him in here just a couple hours ago. Not that I can talk — me and my family, we’re suckers for our dogs, too. Most people practice some self-control, though, is all.”

Jon’s not sure what to say to that without straight _lying_ , because clearly he’s got no self-control to speak of, and he probably shouldn’t tell this girl “Yeah, I’m actually just here to scope out your boss and maybe get her number.”

It occurs to Jon now — and much too late — that this might be totally, fantastically creepy of him. He hadn’t entertained the notion, considering this had been Sam’s idea and Sam is just about the least creepy bloke Jon knows. But now, faced with the reality of what he’s doing, Jon is forced to reconsider every one of his poor life choices that have led him to this point.

Ghost, completely oblivious to his master’s plight, slobbers happily over the pupcake the brunette presents to him.

“ _Ooooh_ -kay, I see what’s happening,” she continues when it’s clear Jon’s too busy swallowing his tongue to contribute to friendly conversation. She dusts her fingers on her apron and gives him an appraising sort of look. “What’s your name?”

“Um… Jon.”

“Right, _um, Jon_.” She’s grinning now, like she’s having the time of her life. Jon doesn’t have siblings of his own, but he imagines this must be what it’s like to have a younger sister take the mickey for no apparent reason. “I’m Arya. So what do you do?”

Jon blinks. “Sorry, what?”

“What do you do? For work,” Arya clarifies as she pours his coffee. She sets it down in front of him and Jon, thankful for something more to do with his hands, takes it. “Only you must be here for my sister, and I want to make sure you’ve got a good job before I call her out here to get hit on again. Been a busy morning for her already. Last guy who took her out waited ‘til the bill came to tell her he’s a _freelance artist_ , which of course doesn’t necessarily mean you’re unemployed, you know? But in his case, well, that’s exactly what it meant.”

“Uhm —” Jon takes a hasty swig of coffee. It’s good — uncommonly good, really, but his head’s reeling too much for him to properly appreciate it. He’s trying to swallow all of the information Arya’s just hit him with, and figures his best bet is to answer her question before he asks any of his own. “I’m a firefighter.”

 _“Reeeeeally?”_ Arya clicks her tongue, impressed if a bit skeptical.

“D’you want to see some identification?”

“If you’ve got it,” she says unapologetically. “I mean, if you think the ‘freelance artist’ was bad, you should hear about the one who said he was independently wealthy, turns out he was living in his mum’s basement.

“No shame in that, of course,” Arya continues as she swipes Jon’s proffered ID to more closely scrutinize it. “Me and Sansa live in our parents’ basement, too. But at least we’re honest about it.”

Jon’s not sure what to say to that, either, but his supposition that this Arya is quite younger sister-ish does evidently carry some weight.

“So you’re Sansa’s sister, then?” he asks when she returns his ID. It feels rather odd to ask such a thing when he hasn’t even seen Sansa yet, but he’s at a loss for anything else.

“Sure am,” she affirms with a nod, “and resident cockblocker, too. You seem decent, though. Reckon she could give you a try, plus she really likes your dog.”

Ghost wags his tail, bumping Jon repeatedly in the leg in his apparent contentment. Jon wishes he could share in his dog’s positivity, but he’s too busy panicking when Arya sticks her head through the swinging door to the kitchen and calls out, “Oi! Sansa! Some bloke here to see you!”

The voice that responds is light and lyrical, and has Jon’s stomach tying up in knots when she asks on a chuckle, “Do I know this bloke?”

“No, but he’s a firefighter.” A wicked grin graces Arya’s face. “Thought you’d fancy that.”

A long pause — long enough to make Jon’s ears heat uncomfortably, as if this whole situation wasn’t uncomfortable enough as it is, and isn’t _that_ just all Jon’s fault to begin with? — and then…

“Did he hear you say that?”

Arya tosses him a glance and a conspiratorial wink over her shoulder. “Yeah, he did. Doesn’t seem all that smug about it, though. He’s a nervous one.”

Jon opens his mouth to protest, but finds he can’t bring himself to lie. So instead he nods and agrees, “Yeah, um, I am.”

Arya laughs, and Ghost barks as the kitchen door swings open in a whirl of auburn hair, sugar, and the scent of a dozen different coffee beans — “Seven save me, Arya Stark, how many times have I got to tell you that dog biscuits and matchmaking are _not_ complementary business ventures — oh.”

She blinks, and Jon blinks back at her. The overhead speakers are tuned to a quiet oldies station, but suddenly all Jon can hear is the _crash-boom-pow_ of “La Bamba” playing in his head.

Sansa Stark really is the _prettiest_ girl he’s ever seen — that classic sort of pretty, with her high cheekbones and pale pink lips and cornflower eyes. A light blush colors her cheeks, and a hand lifts to tug self-consciously at her mussed braid. There’s flour on her nose. Jon never knew that flour on a girl’s nose was something of a turn-on for him — but then, he supposes, he’s never met Sansa Stark until just now.

“Hello,” she says, a smile twitching the corners of her lips.

“Um —” Jon clears his throat, nearly choking on a simple greeting “— hello.”

Although she presses her lips firmly together to try to hide it, Sansa’s smile widens as she gives him perhaps the single most disconcerting and erotic once-over of Jon’s young life. There’s a little flash of her teeth before she clamps her mouth shut to stifle a giggle, and her blush spreads further.

Behind her, Arya shoots him a thumbs-up, exaggerated wink, and such an encouraging nod that Jon’s rather surprised her neck doesn’t snap from the sheer force of it.

Sansa seems to sense her sister’s antics, as she turns her head and says, “Alright, so maybe dog biscuits and matchmaking _do_ occasionally go rather well together.”

Ghost whimpers. Jon’s ears burn with Sansa’s approval, and he shoots his dog a furtive glance as if to agree, _Yeah, boy, I know the feeling_.

“So,” Sansa says crisply, turning back to him so he can see that her blush betrays her otherwise calm and cool demeanor, “can I get you anything? Coffee?”

“His name’s Jon,” Arya informs her, “and he’s already had some.”

Quickly, Jon polishes off what’s left of his still-scalding drink and sets the cup back on the counter. He can’t feel his tongue anymore but it’s _so_ worth it. “I could go for another.”

Arya smirks. “Of course you could. I’m takin’ ten, San,” she adds, planting a kiss to her sister’s cheek before nudging the kitchen door open with her hip. “Lemme know if he gets handsy.”

Jon waits until the door swings shut behind her before asking Sansa, “What would she do if I did? I mean —” he sputters when she quirks an eyebrow at him, once again not thinking about what he says before he says it, like a damn lovestruck idiot “— not that I would, I just —”

“She’s a national boxing champ,” Sansa tells him, taking pity on his flushed face and babbling words. “So you don’t wanna find out.”

“Right.” Jon doesn’t doubt it, but he laughs it off a little, anyway, if only for something to do that _isn’t_ saying accidentally inappropriate things to this girl he’s just met.

He’s saved from inevitable further embarrassment when, just as Sansa’s slid a fresh cup of coffee towards him, the kitchen door opens again — less exuberantly than when either sister had strolled through it — and a lovely, dusky grey husky appears ‘round the counter.

“Oh, is she yours?” Jon asks. Ghost sits straighter and sniffs at the other dog as she approaches; she tilts her head curiously but nonetheless politely, and allows Jon to rub the spot between her ears. “Sam said you had one like Ghost. She’s gorgeous.”

 _You’re_ _gorgeous_ , he thinks when he glances up to find Sansa smiling again. She’s not trying to hide it this time and there’s still flour on her nose, and Jon thinks she might just be the most unequivocally gorgeous thing he’s ever seen, indeed.

“Yeah, that’s Lady,” she says. She fiddles with her apron before pouring another coffee, to which she adds a considerable amount of cream and sugar. Jon makes a mental note that she’s got a sweet tooth. “So, Sam say anything else about me?”

“Well, erm…” Jon trails off, staring fixedly at the pair of dogs at his feet. He can’t say that the only other thing Sam told him was that she was a redhead — no doubt she’d think him some sort of fetishist. Which he’s _not_ , but how do you convince someone you’ve just met of that?

Sansa takes pity on him again. Not as much as last time, since now she leans her elbows on the counter across from him, so close he can smell the coffee on her and could brush the flour from her nose if he wanted to (or lick it off, even, if they’d known each other long enough for her to let him eat stuff off her — _oh, fuck’s sake…_ ), and there’s nothing merciful about the way she sucks her bottom lip between her teeth, either.

“Only, he asked if I was seeing anyone,” Sansa explains, “and I know it wasn’t for him, because he’d just got done telling me all about his girlfriend. Even showed me a picture of her he keeps in his billfold. Now some guys, they think it’s a game, to pit their own girlfriends against some other woman they’ve just met, but Sam doesn’t seem like the sort.”

She takes a moment to consider, swirling her coffee before she takes a sip. “I’ve never met a bloke outside my own family who keeps a picture of his girl in his wallet, anyway.”

 _Oh, I would absolutely keep a picture of you in my wallet_ , Jon thinks with more assurance than he’s ever felt about anything in his life. He’d show it to everyone, too — _Hello, nice to meet you, I’m Jon, and this is a photo of my girlfriend Sansa, can you believe it?_

He doesn’t tell her that just yet, but settles on something a little more first meet-friendly. “Yeah, I reckon he, uh, probably asked you that to avoid sending me into the lion’s den — which, um, by the way,” he continues when Sansa’s smile goes full-watt again and it makes him self-conscious “— I really like the name of your shop. Springsteen, yeah?”

“Absolutely.” Sansa clicks her teeth against the rim of her mug. “You ever see him in concert?”

“Once, with some of my mates from the station.” Jon tracks the movement of her mouth. “You?”

“A couple of times.” She nods emphatically, eyes alight with the memory, and Jon wonders if he can get her to look at him like that, too. “‘Dancing In the Dark’ was the pretty obvious choice for the café — easy pun and all — but ‘Atlantic City’ is one of my favourites. He sang it to me once.”

Okay, so there’s no way Jon’s going to be able to top that; he can’t sing to save his life. “He sang it _to you_?”

“Well…” Sansa’s grin turns self-indulgent. “Me, and the several thousand other people at his concert, but that’s not important.”

Jon laughs, Ghost barks, and it gets easier from there.

The shop closes at two — “We’ve got Stark family dinner on Sundays, which is pretty much an entire day’s affair,” Sansa explains as she locks up a couple of hours later, Jon standing beside her. He’d say he can’t believe he’d stayed so long, but then Sansa smiles at him again and who is he kidding? He’s not surprised in the slightest.

Arya, who’s unlocking her bike at the curb, waggles her eyebrows at the pair of them. “So I’ll see you at home, then? Or should I tell Mum and Dad you’ve got dinner plans tonight? Oh, _please_ say you’ve got dinner plans,” she implores before Sansa and Jon can even begin to blush, “so I can get Robb to bust a gasket. I can tell him Jon’s got a motorbike and questionable morals and you rode off into the sunset because he wants to _rock your world_.

“God, you know what? Don’t even say anything, I’m doing it,” Arya decides. She swings her leg over the bike and rings the bell with relish. “Have fun tonight! And Jon, you’ve got my blessing to get handsy with her now! Don’t waste the opportunity!” she calls over her shoulder when she speeds off, cackling wildly as she goes.

“Well.” Jon smacks his lips as they watch Arya pop a wheelie and disappear ‘round the corner. He turns to look at Sansa, and accepts the fact that they’re both blushing as red as her hair. “She should meet my friend Tormund. They’d get on famously, although I’d rather neither of us was around to listen to what they’d come up with, between the two of them.”

Sansa laughs, but her fingers still twitch nervously when she tries to tuck the loose hair that had escaped her braid behind her ears. Ghost noses Jon in the thigh, eyeing him expectantly, so Jon takes the hint and tucks Sansa’s hair behind her ears himself.

She seems taken aback by the gesture, but pleasantly so. Next to her, Lady snorts daintily and licks her paw. Jon’s not sure if the dog is judging him or not, but it doesn’t deter Sansa from speaking up again.

“You know, I could, um… I could skip dinner tonight,” she says tentatively. “Only, you know, I see my family every week, don’t I? _All_ week, more often than not. That is, I mean, if you’d like to —”

“I’d love to,” Jon says so quickly that the words run together, and he nearly trips in his haste to get them out before Sansa can doubt herself. His hasty foolishness is rewarded tenfold in her answering laugh. “D’you want to — I mean, I’d better take Ghost for a lap around the park after all those pupcakes, if you’d like to… ?”

“I’d love to,” Sansa echoes, and Jon mimics her smile.

Halfway to the park, Jon slips the hand not holding fast to Ghost’s lead into Sansa’s, and she squeezes his fingers so he figures she doesn’t mind how damp with nerves his palm is. His stomach flutters with coffee beans and anxious jumpy butterflies, but he’s not even a bit sorry for how many cups of coffee he’d shared with Sansa over the counter that afternoon.

They let Ghost and Lady loose from their leads in the park’s little enclosure, and lean against the fence to watch the dogs run off their energy after sitting inside all day. And it’s not terribly long before Jon — who never could find his chill, anyway — has Sansa pressed up against the fence, sweaty hands on her hips and her steady ones in his hair.

 _Five quid for a pupcake?_ Jon thinks, and wishes he could box his past self about the ears for his incredulity. Because Sansa’s mouth tastes like one long chuckle and sweet cream and the finest coffee he’s ever had, and five quid on a pupcake is by far the best money he’s ever spent.

And, eventually, Jon wipes the flour from her nose, and kisses her again before she can ask how long it’s been there.


End file.
